Chapter Three
Ravi
I avoid making eye contact as I walk into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. After working out this morning and then a full day of lectures, I’m starving. Still, I can feel Liam’s presence, large and looming on the other side of the room.
“Your last class was over an hour ago. You’re late.”
Being around Liam raises my blood pressure. Given my recent hospitalization, it’s a bit of a problem.
Determined not to let him rattle me, I square my shoulders as I pull bread and jam from the refrigerator.
“Ravi, stop.”
It’s not a request. He says it the way he’d say it to the guys who work for him. When Liam Masters gives an order, my body responds before my brain.
I turn to face him, dropping my backpack, along with the bread and jam, on the kitchen counter with a sigh. Not that I’m good at staying still for long. When he doesn’t speak after a second, I swerve around where he’s seated at the kitchen counter to grab a plate and some peanut butter.
“You can’t live off peanut butter sandwiches, kid.”
Kid. I’m not a child. I turn twenty at the end of November.
“According to my research, peanut butter sandwiches can add approximately thirty-three minutes to your lifespan, Liam.”
“Fuck’s sake.” He nods to a paper takeout bag sitting on the granite counter. “I got chana masala. Your favorite.”
When I glance up he’s rigid in his seat, with his unfairly chiseled jaw clenched.
His dirty blond hair looks messier than usual, as if he’s maybe run his hands through it a whole bunch.
His blue-green eyes glow under the kitchen lights, sharp and assessing the way they always are.
I’ve read too many fantasy novels. I keep expecting him to turn into something immortal that bites.
His hands are clasped on the counter in front of him, and I can see how tense he is by the way the muscles in his forearms sort of bulge. He’s got a tattoo there of a skull with a snake, and the words “memento mori.” Right now the snake looks as if it’s slithering.
Since I seem to be a constant source of tension for Liam, I pretend not to notice the way his hand slides over his stubble.
It’s something he does when he’s frustrated.
Most of all, I pretend I’m not thinking of him slicing open his palm on his razor-sharp features, which gives me a disturbing sense of satisfaction.
Honestly, I try really hard not to be angry. Liam brings it out in me.
No. Stay positive. Silver linings and all that.
I return my focus to my sandwich making. I’ve got it down to a science. Well-toasted whole wheat, a thin layer of vegan butter on each slice, peanut butter, and then strawberry jam. Always strawberry. Then a sprinkle of sea salt.
Liam tells me all the time how my way of making a PB&J is an insult to sandwiches, but honestly it’s one of my favorite things. It’s so good, in a place where good things are hard to find.
“Thanks for ordering dinner,” I tell him. Because I do realize it was a thoughtful thing to do, even if Liam is generally kind of a dick. “Maybe I’ll have some tomorrow.”
Not that I can stomach the spices lately. Tomorrow I might.
“Sit down and eat a real meal for a change,” he grits out.
“I’d honestly really like to do that, Liam, but my digestive system hasn’t been great since the accident. I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like I can handle a spicy meal right now.”
That sounded mature. Right?
“I talked to the owner. Told him you weren’t feeling well. He said he’d make it mild.” He glares at me as if I should be grateful for the effort he’s gone to on my behalf.
I do have to acknowledge the effort.
Except the owner of Spice Road Grill knows us, and he knows I’m Indian. Indian mild isn’t mild-mild, which Liam ought to know.
“Thank you. Maybe tomorrow,” I say again.
There’s always a sour taste in the back of my throat when I thank him for things, because I’m not convinced he’s ever doing them to actually be nice. It’s obligation.
I’m an obligation. That’s all I’ve ever been.
“What the fuck ever, kid,” he mutters under his breath.
Liam and I didn’t always clash the way we do now. At first he at least—sort of grudgingly—taught me things. How to shoot a gun and some self-defense stuff. How to change a tire. Even hung out with me when I was sick or struggling. Which is probably how I got so attached.
Still, it’s always been clear my presence was inconvenient. I’m not sure what it says about me that I developed a crush on him anyway.
I probably ought to research Stockholm syndrome.
“How is your digestion going to get any better if you’re eating the same damn food every day?”
“I had a smoothie earlier.” At lunch I tried getting a burrito on campus. Couldn’t even take more than a bite. Lesson learned.
“Ravi.” His clenched fist lands on the counter, bringing my gaze up to his. “When are you going to take responsibility for your actions? What happened to you wasn’t an accident. You ran naked into a drug warehouse. You nearly died.”
There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. Does he think I don’t know? “Newsflash, Liam: it’s not like I wanted to die. How was I supposed to know there were drugs in there?”
His face reddens, but he doesn’t answer.
I slam the knife into my sandwich a little too enthusiastically, cutting it diagonally into triangles. It’s how my mom always used to cut my sandwiches. They don’t taste the same otherwise.
Liam yanks open a cabinet door with a huff and starts plopping rice and spicy chickpeas onto the plate he pulls out. The smell of the samosas almost gets me to reconsider, but they’re deep fried, and nope. My stomach rebels at the mere thought of all that oil.
“You’ve got to grow up, Ravi. You keep doing impulsive, reckless shit like this? You’re going to end up like your parents.”
He doesn’t understand. I do reckless shit because of how my parents ended up.
What’s the point of being responsible and safe when you might be gone tomorrow?
“I’m not a married man who’s sleeping with a mentally unstable art student,” I argue. “It’s not even close to the same thing.”
His hand slams on the counter again. “Don’t pretend to be so fucking obtuse. You’re more like your dad than you think. Careless. Just because you’re not an art professor who’s fucking his models doesn’t make that less true.”
Wow. I know it’s rude, but I’m kind of giving him the finger. Mentally.
I grab an orange out of the bowl on the kitchen table and pour myself some almond milk. There’s no point in trying to argue. Once Liam’s sure he’s right, there’s no changing his mind. And Liam is Always Right.
Except…one thing bothers me more and more lately. “I don’t understand why you even care.”
“Your father asked me to look after you. It’s my job.”
Is that all I am, then? A job?
“I’m not a kid anymore. If my parents were still alive, their job would be done. So is yours. Since I annoy you so much, why don’t you let me move back into my dorm room, and then you won’t have to deal with that vein throbbing in your temple anymore?”
It’s admittedly a little bit satisfying when he scowls and rubs at the side of his head. As if that will stop his actual blood from flowing. I may be failing biology, but even I know the answer to that one.
I hook my backpack over my arm and gather up my almond milk and my plate.
I make it a total of two steps before he asks me, “What’s your association with Brennan Doyle?”
I freeze where I am. “How many times are you going to ask me that?”
When Liam picked me up from the hospital a couple of weeks ago, Brennan happened to be in my room. It was nice of him to visit me, but not the greatest timing. Liam’s been like a dog with a bone ever since.
“Until you give me an honest answer.”
Here’s the problem: I’ve never lied. Not about this. It’s not my fault Liam won’t believe me.
I’m pretty sure this is an interrogation tactic. Asking me the same question over and over to see if my answer changes. Too bad for him, I’m not lying. Also, I’ve learned his tactics by now.
“Look, he pays me to dance at parties. Sometimes dinner dates, but those usually go to the taller guys. I’m not having sex with anybody. Even if I was, I’m old enough to have sex with whoever I want. It’s not illegal, and it’s nobody’s business.”
Least of all yours.
Anger and want make my pulse race. There was a time when I’d have given anything for it to be Liam’s business.
Maybe it’s a simple fact that teenage hormones caused me to crush on the sentient marble statue who swooped in to rescue me when my world turned upside down?
That’s all long gone, though, believe me.
I mean…more or less.
I’m working on it.
“It’s illegal if you’re getting paid for it, kid.”
“I’m. Not. Having. Sex. With. Anyone.” I practically spit each word through my teeth. “One client likes me to hang out and play chess with him. There’s nothing illegal about that.”
I don’t know why I bother. He’s never going to listen.
This is another problem with Liam. When I’m around him, I’m practically a different person. Not at all who my parents raised me to be.
I’m not mentioning the auction. That part is definitely a legal gray area. Brennan is good at getting around these things, though. That’s why I chose to let him handle setting it all up. Sure, he’s going to take a cut of the money, but with that comes security.
Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I’ll take security where I can.
Yes, Liam tries to keep me safe. Most of the time, though, it feels more like prison than safety. Like he’s my warden, the way PJ said.
There’s a special kind of hurt that comes from knowing the person who helped raise you sees you as a burden. Knowing all I’ll ever be to him is a child? A job?
It aches. Every time he reminds me, it’s as if he took his favorite knife right to my sternum.
“Brennan Doyle is a lowlife, Ravi. A criminal. Associating with him is going to get you arrested.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Blood adds to the anger coating my tongue. Even though I don’t love the sight of it, I strangely don’t mind the taste. I’m weird that way.
“How about this? If I get into trouble, I won’t call you. Okay? I know you think I do stupid things, so how about we agree my stupid things are none of your business?”
“I’m protecting you from your fucking self, kid. It’s my business as long as I’m the one paying for your education.”
Asshole. Once I get the money from the auction, he won’t be able to hold my education over my head.
I’ll hopefully be able to pay my own way for everything.
Not at BAU, obviously. It’s a good school and all, but you pay a premium for the fact that Belle Argo is a beach town.
I’ll go someplace with a cheaper cost of living.
And no Liam.
I squeeze the orange tucked against my palm enough to squish it a little.
“Nobody asked you to do that,” I say quietly. “You announced it was happening with zero discussion. Like everything else.”
“It’s part of taking care of you,” Liam says, almost as quietly. He makes me the most nervous when he’s quiet, honestly. When he’s quiet, I get the feeling of being in the den of a sleeping dragon. The eye of a hurricane.
I lift my chin, refusing to let him intimidate me. Okay, well, the way my heart is hammering is hard to get past, but I refuse to let him see.
There’s this former escort I know. Simon. He’s not awkward or worried about inconveniencing people the way I always am. He’s sassy and unapologetically himself. Simon wouldn’t let anyone make him nervous, least of all Liam.
So what would Simon do right now?
Straightening my back, I march up to him. He’s too tall for me to get right in his face usually, but I can now when he’s sitting on a kitchen stool. So I do.
When I lean in I can smell his aftershave. The earthy scent has me salivating more than the nearby bag of food.
“I don’t need you to take care of me, Liam. I don’t even want you to. You’re not my parent.” I give him a bold once-over. “But you could be my daddy if you wanted.”
The subtle noise he makes, almost like a quiet cough, feels like victory. Ha. Bet that rattled him. I ignore the shiver that runs down my spine. The way my blood rushes south, maybe it rattled me, too.
Take that, Liam.
Vibrating with adrenaline, I take my food and race upstairs. When I get to my room, I lock the door.
Then I eat my sandwich, send a text to the escorts’ group chat, and shove open the window.
Carefully, quietly, I grab my backpack and slide out onto the roof that covers the downstairs barbecue area.
I may be an adult, but I know what will happen if I try to leave tonight.
So, listening for any sign of footsteps, I hold my breath as I slide down one of the support posts and tiptoe to my car parked around the side of the house.
I don’t breathe again until I’m on the road.
Fuck you, Liam.